“They may have been drinking,” I stated. “Looking for a scrap.”
The Jinx laughed harshly. “The field’s too small for the two of us—Allen
and me!” he muttered. “Just tell him I said that.”
With that he climbed into the rear cockpit of the Marlin and started
moving the dual controls around. I swore a few times at myself. What a
great little fixer I was! Then I shrugged my shoulders. I’d tried,
anyway, and I didn’t believe that Bert Allen had picked up some soldiers
and had them beat up the Jinx. But Bride believed it.
There was one chance. I could go to the C. O. and let him have the whole
thing. That might keep them out of the same ship, and it might not.
Major Burton was a fighter. He was a red-headed, flying fool. The
chances were he’d laugh at me, and I’d rate as an old woman. So I
decided to keep clear. I went back for my nap. It was no go; all I could
see was the bomber up above in the maneuvers, with Bert Allen riding the
front cockpit, and in the rear, the Jinx.
* * * * *
We had twenty-seven ships in the air. I was leading a formation,
V-shaped, of scout single-seaters. There were five of us in the
formation. For a half hour we’d been in the air, stunting, doing combat
work, ground strafing. Now, as a sort of _finale_ to the maneuvers, we
were to attack two DeHavilands and the Marlin bomber. They were flying
in formation, at five thousand and headed over the black watered Pasig
from the Malate District of Manila, toward the field. Four Ryan scouts
were protecting them, and it would be a good show when we dove down on
them from the seven thousand feet we had.
We roared in at an angle. The idea was to intercept them over the field,
so that the colonel could see everything that went on. I rocked the
scout I was flying, and the formation spread out a little. We were
within half a mile of the field now, and flying wide open.
Manila lay back of us—the bay glittered a deep blue, not far beyond the
field. The air was rough and hot, as usual. I stared down at the little
ships escorting the three bombers. The Marlin was at the apex of the
three. I stiffened as I thought of her crew. It would be a sharp mixup
when we dropped down on them. The sort of dog fight that needs a cool
head and steady fingers on the stick. A slip on rudder bar action, a
false zoom or dive, and there would be an air crash.
We gained on the formation below. There was a crowd down on the field.
All the personnel were out, and the colonel had brought his staff along.
Cars were driving out from Manila, too, attracted by the air maneuvers
we’d been putting on.
I leaned over the left side of the fuselage. The little single-seaters
escorting the three bombers were spreading out some. I drew a deep
breath, then waved my left hand. Pulling back the stick, I zoomed, then
dove her.
The others in the formation were diving, too. With our engines throttled
down, the wind shrill through the wires and rigging came clearly. One of
the little ships below zoomed up to meet us. The three bombers banked
steeply to execute a left turn.
And then the mimic sky scrap was on. We had blanks in the machine guns,
and they made a fine clatter. Jimmy Wyant, a sweet single-seater pilot,
singled me out, and we had a hot time. But I kept diving and zooming,
trying to get near the three bombers, still in formation. Again and
again Jimmy cut me off, dropped down ahead of me, forced me to zoom, to
roll over, to fall off on a wing. Once we flashed within thirty feet of
each other—and I caught a broad grin on his face.
And then the bombers broke formation. One of the boys had got down on
them, and it was each ship for herself. I picked out the Marlin, drew
Jimmy up in a loop and dove straight for the bomber. I was coming right
down on her tail—when it happened. It was all over in a flash.
Bert zoomed the two-seater as a little ship came at him from an angle.
There was another ship on his right, one of the escort. She was roaring
in to combat the scout that was angling in from the left, and Bert
didn’t see her. At the top of his zoom, he banked to the right, kicked
right rudder.
I shouted hoarsely; my body stiffened. Diving down on the Marlin I could
see everything. She fell off on her right wing just as the escort ship
nosed down in an attempt to get clear. It didn’t work. The right wing of
the bomber crashed, ripped into the right wing of the little ship! Then
they started to fall, tangled together.
I zoomed, leveled off, my heart pounding. Then I banked around. When I
looked down again the little escort ship was spinning toward the field
below. A figure streaked up from her single cockpit. Her pilot had got
clear. The pilot ’chute sprang open as I watched—and then my eyes went
to the bomber.
She had four thousand feet and she was going down in a slow spin, her
right wing twisted and warping more with each turn’s air battering. I
dove for her like a bullet.
The other had winged clear, giving both plunging ships air room. I
caught a glimpse of the white steam rising from the field’s danger
siren. And then the scout was down close to the big ship and off to one
side. I pulled the stick back, eased up on the dive angle. My eyes went
to the slowly spinning Marlin.
Bert Allen was out, unconscious. One glance showed me that. His head
hung limply to the right of the front cockpit, against the curved
streamlining of the fuselage. A strut dangled loosely above his head, a
wing strut battered free in the crash. Bert was out.
I groaned and looked for the Jinx, and I didn’t have to look far. He was
up in the rear cockpit; one leg was flung over the side of the fuselage.
There was a splintering of the wing fabric as the wind ripped at the
broken wing. The bomber rolled her undercarriage into sight as she spun.
I nosed the scout down more steeply. Then I got a glimpse of the
cockpits again. This time I yelled wildly, hoarsely.
The Jinx had his arms forward, under Bert’s shoulders. He was trying to
drag him from the front cockpit, his body braced inward toward the
fuselage, his legs hooked around the lower section of a strut on the
undamaged wing. This time Bride was sticking; he was trying to get the
unconscious pilot clear of the ship!
She rolled again and, when the cockpits whirled into sight, I saw
something white streak upward, off the trailing edge of the left, lower
wing fabric. A ’chute—the pilot ’chute! Bert’s seat pack. Bride had
jerked the rip cord and let her jump.
She didn’t tangle. The next thing I saw was Bert Allen’s body floating
out from the whirling ship, then plunging downward in a series of
somersaults. The bomber whirled at a greater speed. I muttered thickly
at the blotch of color on the left wingtip.
“Jump! Get clear, Jinx!”
And then the bomber was down below a thousand feet and nosing straight
for the field below. I leveled off, banked around widely. Then I
muttered a short prayer, nosed down and cut the engine. I had a view of
the field below and most of the air above it. The bomber’s ground crash
sounded.
Bert Allen’s ’chute had opened. He was almost to the ground. Figures
were running out from the deadline, toward him. And the ’chute of Jinx
Bride opened, less than a hundred feet above the earth, as my eyes went
toward the hurtling streak. It drifted him down toward the edge of the
field.
I got the stick between my knees and wiped the perspiration off my
hands. I felt all in, let down all the way, but I grinned. And as I
reached for my signal gun to get the other ships back in formation there
was just one thought in my head. Lieutenant Bride might be a sky jinx,
but he was something else, too, something pretty big, at that!
* * * * *
Prop and I sat near the foot of Bert Allen’s cot, in the field hospital.
The Jinx sat up near the head. He was speaking in a low tone.
“— and the C. O. says they’ve got a couple of soldiers over at the
General Hospital who’ve come through with the truth. They’d been
drinking _saké_ and were looking for some one to lick, preferably an
officer. My jinx worked and I strolled along. So they tackled me. I’d
figured you might have been in on it, Allen—apologies for that.”
Bert Allen grinned. A busted ankle and two ribs couldn’t stop Bert’s
grin.
“Jinx,” he stated weakly, and kept on grinning, “when that strut banged
me in the head I figured I was gone—and that’s all I had time to figure.
But now that I’m still kicking, grab hold, man!”
He stuck out his right hand. Jinx Bride took it. Prop looked at me and
winked.
“This doesn’t mean there’ll be any miracles around here,” Bride stated,
grinning. “I’ll still crack ’em up, ten to one.”
Prop chuckled. I thought of Bride, sticking in that whirling ship,
jerking the rip cord of the seat pack and shoving Bert Allen clear.
Crackups would seem sort of small, after that.
It was Bert who summed it up. He closed his eyes, but he still grinned.
“Jinx,” he said, “you’re still alive.”
Which means, in the idiom of the Air Service, that Lieutenant Bert Allen
was conceding that the Jinx was _good_.
[Notes on the Text: This story appeared in _Adventure Magazine_,
December 15, 1927. It is believed to be in the public domain in the
United States; copyright status may differ in other countries.]